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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24066883">Her</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Carmichael/pseuds/J_Carmichael'>J_Carmichael</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supergirl (TV 2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, Fluff, No Angst, POV Second Person, Slice of Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:27:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,664</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24066883</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Carmichael/pseuds/J_Carmichael</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>That's how it started. Ever since you were a child, you liked to look outside – you were always near the windows in class – to observe passers-by, neighbours, schoolchildren, older people, tourists, strangers.  Everything interested you, attracted your eye and captured your attention restlessly. You were captivated by the unknown.</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>A short depiction of how Kara and Lena found each other – and never left.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Her</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When you first met her, you certainly didn't expect to share her bed only a few hours later, then her apartment, and then her life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It could have been said that fate had brought you together, but deep down you knew that no divine or higher force had anything to do with the two of you. It was a little bit your fault, so to speak, observing her from the double-glazed windows of your office on the third floor. In spite of yourself, you noticed and memorized without even realizing it her habits – the way she crossed the street to go to an organic shop, coming back approximately two minutes and fifteen seconds later to the other side, sitting on the bench closest to the entrance to the park, about a hundred meters from here, finally  turning up the street where your gaze could not carry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That's how it started. Ever since you were a child, you liked to look outside – you were always near the windows in class – to observe passers-by, neighbours, schoolchildren, older people, tourists, strangers.  Everything interested you, attracted your eye and captured your attention restlessly. You were captivated by the unknown. Human life intrigued you. As time went by, you noticed how people hurried, how they gave a few acquaintances ten minutes or so at a coffee table, how they managed whenever they wanted, the phone between the ear and the shoulder, and a sandwich in one hand, hailing a taxi to get to some place quickly. You saw it every day. You saw your colleagues, and the colleagues of other people, being forced to do the same thing. They made you think of machines. Their automated gestures pushed you away, sometimes frightened you at the sight of the queue of taxis that appeared on long winter evenings. Their actions were all the same. Habit could be compared to stillness – no change was noticeable in these unconscious attitudes. This was what you feared most. You needed space, mobility, exchange, progress, renewal.</p>
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    <i>Her ways had not frightened you away. On the contrary, they<i> attracted<i> you, intrigued you to the utmost. She could not be called an automaton, although her gestures were those of a regular. Sometimes you would see her stop to chat with a man or a woman, twenty seconds, three minutes, or even half an hour – without her ever letting go of her smile. She never lost her smile. She seemed to enjoy conversations, no matter how long they were, with strangers, acquaintances, whatever.  She liked to talk – better, she liked – you were adamant about that, even without having met her – to<i> listen<i>. Few people apply the saying that silence is golden. You think you can include yourself in this group – and probably include her, too. You've never understood the obsession some people have with talking about themselves, their lives, their holidays, making a movie of it, a report, an interview. If it was only that, you could have put up with it. But to see them tell all of this without taking the time to listen, or even to observe what was going on around them, was beyond your strength. You<i> pitied<i> it, that self-centered, self-absorbed humanity. You dealt with it anyway you could.</i></i></i></i></i></i></i>
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                <i>You watched her between noon and one o'clock, until she left her bench – in a corner of your mind, you considered it hers – and left. You never left your office to go down to her, to meet her, to <i>listen to her listening<i>. You tried not to think about it, that you could just observe her while she just listened, without asking for anything more. You weren't looking for anything else. It could have gone on and ended this way, without any action having been taken, if you hadn't met her on the corner of the street where you were staying, one day when you were late for work. Maybe you were just hanging out that morning on purpose.</i></i></i>
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                    <i>She had big, expressive eyes and had asked you something you don't remember, but that same evening you found her in the same place, looking at you, staring at you as if she was exposing you. As if she saw you bare. As if she was <i>listening<i> to you.</i></i></i>
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                        <i>Bare, she was, you don't know how long afterwards, in your tiny bed within the walls of your studio.  Your clothes had slowly joined hers. She stayed for an hour or two, maybe ten. What was certain was that she left before sunrise.</i>
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                        <i>You saw her again a little later in the week, this time at her house.  She had waited at that same crossroads, where you had followed her without asking. Your walk was slow, inversely proportional to the desire to discover the other you felt. The waiting did not bother you – you had been aware of her for a long time, you could wait a few moments more.</i>
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                        <i>You undressed slowly. You undressed her even more slowly, to the limit of humanly possible. She didn't mind, watching you with her piercing gaze. After slow and endless frolics, she asked your name. Lena, you answered. She didn't answer back. You didn't ask her name. She didn't give it. You left her lair without another word at the first light of dawn. She did nothing to hold you back, mimicking your behavior at the beginning of the week.</i>
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                        <i>The third time, only two days later, you went straight to her door when you finished work. She opened it, let you in without a word. The sheets still carried your scent. In the middle of the night you fell asleep – you hadn't planned this, but it seemed like she hadn't too – you planted your arm on her waist and closed your eyes. She didn't push it away. Once during the next week, she had embraced you, put her head in the hollow of your neck and shoulder. You had let her do it, finding a strange relief in the way her hair tickled your collarbones, her hand caressing your ribs.</i>
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                        <i>You began to see each other outside of your nightly encounters after about forty days – time enough for you to get used to a closeness, a tactility you hadn't tasted since you were a child. You'd like to think it was probably the same for her too. You have no doubt the day she whispers her name against your throat. You never left before dawn since then. Sometimes she would come and wait for you in front of the building where you worked. Often you would go, empty stomached or satiated from a meal you had just shared, to sit on the park bench – her bench. No one was paying attention to you, no one was watching you. You stopped <i>minding<i> at some point.</i></i></i>
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                            <i>You remained quiet most of the time, without uttering a sound, memorizing in a corner of your head your surroundings, everything that deserved a glance, however tiny. You also began to talk to each other. The conversations you were making were neither numerous nor time consuming, but <i>necessary<i>, unusual in their irregularity, but welcomed with a smile from her, a softening in the eyes from you. Sometimes you did nothing when the day stretched out, other than guessing each other in the half-light, sleeping against a warm body, clothed or unclothed.</i></i></i>
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                                <i>You spent more and more time at her house, staying in the morning for breakfast in her company, arriving earlier to share a few more minutes. She must have sensed it. You didn't care, just let things unroll, as you always did. Until you found yourself spending most of the summer in her living room or bedroom or wandering the streets with her by your side. It just seemed normal to you – it <i>still<i> does.</i></i></i>
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                                    <i>You were thinking about settling down with her – you could share a rent –, marrying her – you wouldn't mind at all –, having children with her – you'd raise them together –, having your grave to the left of hers – you could hold hands underground.</i>
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                                    <i>You thought about it for a long time without doing anything <i>concrete<i> to carry out these plans.  Plans that were abandoned and no longer had any purpose when you decided, on a mutual agreement, to bring your toilet bag and some of your clothes to her apartment to save you from having to go back and forth. When you tacitly chose the left side of the bed as she preferred the right, and you woke up, your bodies, your limbs tangled up in each other – like two irresistible magnets. When you realized that reading a book on the couch, her body tight against yours, was a unique sensation that you enjoyed, that you wouldn't trade your place for <i>anything<i> in the world. When she proposed to you a year later, with flowers, a knee, a simple ring, a few quotes and a poem that you interrupted when you couldn't hold back your tears and your smile anymore. It wasn't perfect, but it was special, special for you, and unusual, and that was more than enough for you. When you brought your children to every start of school. They were happy. She was. You were too.</i></i></i></i></i>
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                                            <i>When they buried you, millions of years later, to her left, digging a hole between your two graves so you could feel the roughness of her skin between your frozen muscles. You hadn't been able to last a year without her before the loss became unbearable. In spite of yourself, you needed her more than you could have imagined. You <i>depended<i> on her. Your life had <i>always<i> depended on it, your death would depend on it forever. You think it was probably the same for her.</i></i></i></i></i>
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                                                    <i>You remember the way she held you close after a passionate night, her grip on your waist, her fingers tangled in yours, or in your hair.</i>
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                                                    <i>You don't doubt it anymore. It was the same for her. It had always been the same for her.</i>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to Z who beta-ed this work, seing as my english proficiency is nowhere near hers.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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